Metro  Bird of Prey
by poptartfairy
Summary: 2033 and the world has been reduced to rubble. A few thousand survive, deep within the Moscow Metro - the biggest air-raid shelter ever built. When civil war threatens to consume the station of Kitay-gorod, its fate falls into the hands of one person.


**Chapter One**

**Smoke and Feathers**

_Mary had a pretty bird,_

_Feathers bright and yellow,_

_Slender legs, upon my word_

_He was a pretty fellow._

A sprained ankle, damaged gas mask and battered Kalashnikov. At least three things had stayed in place, though it was something of a miracle there had been no major injuries - being flung from a fast moving carriage was not, as most in the Metro would tell you, a terribly safe way to end a journey. Then again the alternative was another clash with Viktor's men and that definitely would have resulted in a few broken kneecaps, if they wouldn't simply have you shot. Overall the situation could be better.

Taking a moment to scrabble for matches, the Stalker realised light was streaming down from a nearby staircase. Abandoned for at least twenty years it was riddled with massive cracks, and enormous chunks of masonry had been stripped away if not outright destroyed. Even the set of proud, iron gates at the top had been reduced to little more than scrap metal - metal that, thankfully, seemed to have eroded away due to time rather than anything hostile. Still, it was quiet and that carriage would be at least two miles down the Metro-line by now, giving more than enough time to catch some bearings and put together a more definite plan. At least there was only one person down here right now.

Just one.

It hit suddenly, painfully. One had been ripped apart, another dead from the injuries. That third had bought them some time but fell behind in the process, the fourth had just...just like that. No hesitation. The Stalker could have screamed, could have kicked and swore and threw things all over, but instead collapsed into a sobbing heap, exhaustion finally winning over. Back to the wall, wallowing in self-pity...

'No...no, no. Screw this, _screw this_.'

On one foot the Stalker began to climb, grunting with every step. Could have done with a cigarette right about now. 

_E__arlier_

'Braykova!'

'...fuggoff...'

Ira lashed out at the torch, failing to do much more than crack her foot on a wooden panel. Swearing again she groped for a cloth to rub her face with, peering sleepily up at the man who had disturbed her.

'...mhrm, Petro...?'

'Toad needs you up at the blockades, lights are messed up again.'

'How far out?'

'Four hundred metres.'

'Shit!'

Nobody went past the four hundred and fiftieth.

'I know, I know it's a tragedy,' he smirked, 'now shut up and go. Viktor's getting antsy about the patrols, paranoid about the Reds I think. Though nobody tells him that, you understand me?'

'Yes, yes, yes, be right there...'

Ira buried herself in the dirty sheets for a few more glorious seconds, eventually hauling herself out and draping a loose fitting anorak over herself. Water canteen, backpack and torch, ready for another glorious day in the empire that was the _Kitay-gorod_ station! Snorting, Ira kicked a tile away from her makeshift tent and trudged towards the glow of a distant light. All things considered this particular station wasn't in terrible shape, at least not compared to some of them she had heard stories about, but its size was irritating - far too small she had probably seen it all about two dozen times over in the space of a week. Even those herds of pigs being cultivated at the end of the western tunnel had ceased to be interesting anymore, and she now considered them annoying. Fat, and their excrement was good for the mushrooms, but annoying.

Then again there wasn't much to complain about if she really thought about it. True, the lighting they had kept crapping out and she was one of the scant three engineers forced to scurry around in the dark fixing things whenever they went down, but the fact they actually had some sort of electricity was an enormous boon. Generators were extremely rare in the Metro, she had heard, let alone ones that could be powered with hand cranks and dynamos. They'd never be producing enough to profit from it - like those guys up at _Sevastopolskaya_ - but still, Ira wasn't going to grumble too much. At least she could see five feet without smashing her toe on something.

Hopping down onto the tracks themselves, what was left of them anyway, Ira lit a cigarette on a nearby fire and shuffled towards the one-hundred metre blockade. Barely acknowledging the guards they nonetheless gave a quick, formal, salute and stood aside; an uncomfortable feeling of isolation already creeping in. Even with guns both in front and behind her she felt vulnerable, only cheering up when she had reached the four-hundredth metre and felt the reassuring presence of three other humans.

'You're late, Braykova.'

'Sorry Toad.'

Toad was one of the more obnoxious station guards, having shoved his nose up Viktor's arse the moment he'd stepped foot into _Kitay-gorod_. He liked to brag he'd gotten his name from the time he'd hidden himself in a river up on the surface, but one look at him knew this was bullshit: Toad was an ugly, portly man. Not vile or scarred, just...ugly. Difficult to describe, but even harder to care about. Still, anyone who kept coming to the four-hundredth metre on foot had to be admired in some small way. Beyond this point the tunnel just went on and on and on and on, stretching into absolutely nothing. While Ira knew that station _Turgenevskaya_ was at the other end, nobody interesting came through from that direction. Too dangerous they said, a claim she was in no hurry to disprove.

'Hey.'

'Hello Little Ira.'

Oleg and Wretch greeted her, Wretch's smile hidden beneath a thick beard, Oleg's scarred visage peering down at her from a crude tower. Ira briefly saluted the two, staring Toad in the face again.

'Petro just got to me. He was held up I think.'

'Why?'

'Iunno. Guards maybe? They looked jumpy when I passed 'em. Where's the problem?'

Toad scowled, grunted and jabbed a thumb towards a set of large torches rigged together in a rough circular shape. Sandbags and debris had been gathered into makeshift barricades several metres in front of it, with an open fire giving off just enough heat to keep any guards comfortable. Stretching irritably Ira rolled her eyes at the fat man behind his back, exhaling the last of her cigarette smoke - tossing the butt over a shoulder before rolling up both sleeves; she'd had to repair this thing at least six times in the last fortnight, so could probably do it in her sleep by now. A kick, a curse, and the necessary panel came away...right onto her foot.

'It's broken but hasn't caused us trouble yet, Little Ira, Toad thought he heard something and pissed himself. But other than that the Metro's finest have kept this station safe.'

'Fuck you, Wretch.'

'Oh give over Toad, you asshole. You know we're not in any danger here, don't be so uptight.'

'That's not the point! If word gets back to Vikt-'

'Which it won't.'

'How do you know that?'

'Because I just do, alright? What the hell kind of word are you expecting to get back to him anyway?', he stood up imitating a very important sounding man, '"Oh yes comrade Petrov, we killed seven Red bastards today, would you like their scalps next time"? Piss.'

'There's something out there, I can just feel it.'

'Oh not this shit again, Toad!'

Ira snickered, exchanging looks with Oleg as the two men continued to bicker. Their language was getting heated - if not outright violent at times - but the way they looked at each other...well, other than when drunk on Shroom Juice she couldn't remember the last time either of them had actually attacked the other. Most people here weren't ready to risk their reputation on something as stupid as that; word travelled fast in such a small community, and a lot of people had been screwed over by the the smallest word in the wrong place. Thankfully, this post was not one such place. There was an unspoken agreement that anything said this far out in the tunnel would _stay_ this far out in the tunnel.

'What about you, Oleg?' She looked up at the scarred man who was currently checking the post's machine gun, its nose peering into the tunnel. 'Nothing to report?'

'Only rumours again.'

'Oh yeah, anything interesting? Giant rats? Trollies? Monsters?'

'Nothing like that. Mutants, mushrooms and pigs.'

'Not all at once I hope.'

'No, but Wretch here did cook up something pretty cool with...what did you call it, Wretch?'

'Shroom Slash. Some mushrooms, a pig's leg, all sprinkled with some Moscow ash'

Ira raised an eyebrow, staring at the man just long enough for him to burst into a harsh laugh, slapping one knee at his own joke. A few forced chuckles came from the other guards before silence resumed again leaving them all to their individual thoughts. Ira's hands idly trailed over several brass components. They were funny things with their engravings and scuff marks, like somebody had tried to keep score with them, but they'd proven themselves to be reliable again and again and again. Could still remember the first time she had stuck her hands inside one of these things, as a small girl...connecting two wrong wires had knocked her clean on her backside, much to Petro's enjoyment. Grunting at the memory she cocked the main dynamo, ran a few checks inside her head, flicking the main switch off, then on, then off, then on again.

'Think I got it, think I go-FUCK.'

Resisting the urge to kick Wretch, who had nearly fallen over from a fresh bout of laughter, Ira suckled her bloodied thumb and strode to the rear of the accumulated torches. Taking hold of a crank she began to grunt, forcing her full weight - which was not considerable - onto it, getting some sort of charge through its batteries. A final check and Ira nodded to herself.

'Try it now, Oleg!'

'Lights!'

Every last torch crackled to life, their mismatched beams creating a disjointed beam of light that shone quite a distance into the tunnel. Something scurried out of the beam's path, most likely a rat, before it was shut off again. They could only keep it going for a short period anyway, being one of the hungrier devices in the station.

'Nice job, Little Ira. Got it like your papa, huh?'

'I'm told I've got his looks,' she smirked at the bearded man, 'but you can't win them all I guess.'

'Heh, good girl. Shame what happened to him really.'

'The man was a prick.'

'True, but we could've done with his skills.'

'You've got me and Adam for that, I hear Nada's starting to get pretty tricky with the wrench.'

'You might've misheard that one.'

'Mmm?'

'Nothing.'

Wretch's beard twitched as he smiled again, eyes twinkling with a look Ira couldn't quite place. Without saying anything further he offered the woman a cigarette, lighting his own as he did so. For about an hour nobody really spoke, going through the motions of checking, sweeping, rechecking and triple checking a few metres into the tunnel but nothing interesting happened or could be heard. Sweeping both hands across the fold of her hood, Ira sighed - picking up a stone and tossing it down the tunnel as far as she could, shoulders slumping with disappointment as nothing growled or hissed or roared in response to it.

'Sorry to bore you, Braykova', Toad muttered, 'you can fuck off back to the station now you're done.'

'Such a charmer.'

She stuck her tongue out at him, causing Wretch to chuckle a third time, before seating herself on one of the heavier sandbags. Puffing on the cigarette she reached into the depths of her jacket, pulling out a neat - if battered - pistol. A thought suddenly struck her.

'Where the hell do I get a gun like you guys?'

'You don't. You're not a soldier.'

'Guard.'

'Whatever. You're not, we are. We get proper guns, you don't.'

'You'd feel terrible if I got eaten! How would I defend myself without a proper gun?'

'You wouldn't. If you're too stupid to stick near us then you're gonna get eaten anyway. Why would you be surprised?'

'What about you Wretch?' she turned to him, 'Would you feel bad if I got eaten?'

'Not too bad. Would have to find someone else to fix the lights but I'd get over it.'

'Well sod you then...Oleg! Oleg my friend! You would feel bad, wouldn't you?'

'No!'

Ira frowned, pretending to sulk underneath her hood before giving up and taking another drag from the rapidly shrinking cigarette. She was getting restless and hated it. There was no reason for her to go back to the station, yet there was absolutely no reason for her to stick around either. The atmosphere was good but boredom was just as likely to kill her as anything else these days, and that was absolutely infuriating - swearing loudly she threw both arms up in the air.

'I can't stand this shit! How do you guys do it? How do you guys stand here for eight hours at a time, doing nothing? Nobody comes down here anymore!'

'We're disciplined,' it was Toad again, 'something you wouldn't understand.'

'Shut your mouth Toad,' Wretch cut in before Ira could respond, 'we all know you hate this as much as we do. Your face looks like a sore arse after the first three hours.'

'...eeeeeeh, alright, alright, you got me. No I have no idea how the hell we stand here for eight hours at a time, Braykova. Maybe it's the thought of getting cartridges at the end of a week, eh? Got it cushy unlike those Hansa assholes. Back and forth and back and forth and back, trading all over the Metro, huh? Paid more sure, but fucked if I'm gonna risk myself like that.'

'How much do you guard...sorry, _soldiers_ get paid anyway? Petro slaps cartridges on me here and there, but...'

'We get enough. You wanna try and get in with Viktor's personal soldiers though, you know? Real hardcore types. Heard he's got a couple pre-bomb guys looking after him.'

'You're kidding.'

'No, I'm serious. Seriously, look at the shit on their arms if you get a chance. They're all painted and shit like that, you don't get anything like at this station. Only place I know you get branded anything like it is...uh...dammit, what's that place the Reds've got, Wretch?'

'Good question, um...yeah. _Lubyanka_, isn't it?'

'Sounds right, but anyway...nobody's painted like that anymore. None of them are young either, if you catch me. I'm telling you those guys were up to their arms in serious shit before the bombs dropped. No way in hell they survived this long otherwise.'

There was silence for a moment as it sunk in; Ira had never really considered the possibility of someone being that old. If they were alive before the war it was rare to hear anyone speaking of the surface world, and rarer still for those same people to make a big deal out of it. They just got on with life really, which Ira felt she owed them a fair amount of praise for. It was all very depressing to think about though and she absent-mindedly waved a hand, coughing as she inhaled on her cigarette a final time. This was one of those times where it was extremely tempting to lose herself and start feeling miserable all over again...right up until the point a guitar was heard from the watchtower, Oleg's beaming face looming over a banister.

'Hahaha...you brought that fuckin' thing?'

Even Toad cracked a smirk, but did his best to remain aloof. Wretch, lacking the dignity of his compatriots began to bob his head in time with the music - tongue clucking every few strums, one foot adding a little background timing. A simple beat, the guitar strumming harder, louder; Ira starting to laugh as she tapped her water canteen. It was basic, off-tune and absolutely horrible to hear but soon the four of them were throwing solos and rhythms off one another, wood and stone crashing, guitar banging, water sloshing - easy, dumb amusement, but was probably going to be the high-

'LIGHTS. NOW.'

In perfect unison the three men had disabled the safeties on their weapons, light flooding across every last piece of debris as the mass of torches was kicked into action. Ira didn't realise what the problem was until a heavy footstep echoed through the tunnel, coming from ten metres or so away from the barricade. Having taken cover behind the sandbag she'd been previously sat on, Ira resisted the urge to come out from hiding and peered around its edge - clapping eyes on the man behind this disturbance.

The Stalker had apparently made no attempt to hide from the men, his arms raised in submission, one weapon - a Kalashnikov - slung across his back, an unusually long-chambered pistol holstered at his hip. A faded, yellow anorak covered what his overalls did not, and despite there being no need to wear it this far into the Metro, he had not removed his gas mask. Wretch was the first to speak.

'You there! Traveller? Trader? Bandit?'

'"Awake, sleeper, And arise from the dead, And Christ will shine on you."'

Toad shifted uncomfortably, motioning for the others to lower their weapons.

'So...you're Kestrel. Come with me.'


End file.
